


there is only one cardinal sin

by yourendlessblue



Series: the heart of a king, the sins for a queen [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Promised Day, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourendlessblue/pseuds/yourendlessblue
Summary: (he loved her severely, blindly, almost desperately—he loved her with the honest devotion of a pious man.)
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Series: the heart of a king, the sins for a queen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892512
Comments: 26
Kudos: 79





	1. i. superbia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riza stood there, transfixed to her spot, with raw fear, and awe, running through her. Her father’s student was rising his voice, at her father, his master, in defence of her.

He was the first person to ever stood up for her—and to her father, no less.

It wasn’t even something major, nothing she never received before. She had been carrying up the tray of dinner for the both of them, her father and Mr. Mustang, because it had been an hour since dinner was ready but they were yet to emerge from the study. She knew her father was used to skipping meals. She worried Mr. Mustang might not be the same, and the hunger might gnaw on him as he tried to finish whatever it was her father was making him do, and he would lose focus and spend longer and grew hungrier by the minute. She stepped in and found him drawing a transmutation circle on the hardwood floor, dusted by chalk and a lot of faint erasings of past circles. Her father’s head snap upwards to her on the door, tray in her hands.

“Why are you here?” Her father asked sharply. Riza swallowed.

“I was—the food were getting cold, Father. You… and Mr. Mustang… should eat first.”

Her father regarded her with an unreadable expression, then pointed out. “It is not your business to tell me what to do. I’m your father, not otherwise, Riza.”

She flinched, and from the corners of her eyes saw Roy stopping from making an array. “Yes, Father. I’m very sorry.”

“Master,” Mr. Mustang began suddenly, as she walked backwards to retreat, smiling sheepishly, despite looking slightly fearful himself, “maybe, um, maybe we can eat first? I’m a little… hungry and my concentration’s waning, and Miss Hawkeye’s already made and brought the food—“

Riza froze as her father turned to Roy. “Mr. Mustang,” he said evenly, “you’re in the middle of learning something important. Don’t mind my daughter.”

To her immense surprise, Roy stood up to his full height from the floor—he wasn’t very tall, not as tall as her father, and he wasn’t at all imposing, but he was oddly indignant. “Sir—“

“Riza, out,” her father said, and Riza started, bending down to put the tray next to the door. “Riza, bring the food out. Do you not see how you’ve broken the lesson?”

“I’m very sorry, Father, I’ll just—“ she straightened herself back, and moved backwards to go—

“Sir, it’s not her fault, she was just trying to be considerate, with how we haven’t eaten,” Roy protested. Riza felt her heart hammer in her chest, felt her hands, holding the tray, grew unsteady as it got slick with sweat. “Don’t be angry at her. It’s my fault I didn’t manage to get this sooner, but also, Sir, she was right, I might be losing concentration because I’m a bit hungry.”

“Mr. Mustang,” her father, and Riza’s blood run cold. Her father’s tone was laced with warning, leaving no place for argument, and most of all, dangerous. “Do remember what you are here for. You are here to learn alchemy, as I have no heir that is capable of carrying my research. You are not the first one here, and you can easily not be the last, either. My daughter’s foolish concerns are no concerns for you, _she_ is not your concern. She has her own education to pursue, since she cannot learn the same thing you are capable of. Do not disappoint me.” _Do not disappoint me like my daughter did._

Riza trembled. “Forgive me, Father,” she said quietly, and she moved her heavy-lead legs to exit the study, closing the door with her elbow. She bit her lower lip and took a shuddering breath, closing her eyes and trying to blink back the tears, when she heard, through the thick, mahogany door, Roy replied.

“Sir, and I’m trying to say this very respectfully, but you shouldn’t have said that to her, she’s not wrong at all. She’s just trying to be considerate, you should regard your daughter better, Sir.”

“Mr. Mustang, you seem to fail to understand that my family was none of your business.”

“Yes, it should be _your_ business, Sir. You tell me she’s not my concern but is she yours?”

Roy’s voice was rising. Riza stood there, transfixed to her spot, with raw fear, and _awe_ , running through her. Her father’s student was rising his voice, at her father, his _master_ , in defence of _her_. She should have scurried back down immediately, because she had no idea what would happen if her father opened the door and found her eavesdropping, but she couldn’t. “Mr. Roy Mustang,” her father said, still evenly, but coldly, “you should know that the only reason you are here is because my daughter has no aptitude of alchemy.”

“And _that’s_ a reason for you to treat your own daughter like that? Sir, with all due respect, she’s the smartest person, only second to you, that I’ve ever met! And you kept treating her like she’s your househelper instead. Sir, I don’t learn alchemy from you because I want to replace your daughter for you, I want to learn it to better—“

“Mr. Mustang, get back to your work now, or you pack your belongings and get out of my house tomorrow.”

Riza ran downstairs.

-

She paced the kitchen, the next morning, when Roy didn’t came. She’d knocked on his door, but there had been no answer, and she was too scared to peek inside. A fear ran through her—what if he left? What if his father kicked him out last night, where did he—it was cold outside, did he already leave the house? What time did he go? If he had been kicked out because he stood up for her, he _would_ hate her so much. Both him and her father. She ruined everything, she shouldn’t—

“G’morning, Miss Hawkeye.”

Riza jumped. It was a little over ten, almost three hours later than their usual breakfast schedule, but Roy was in last night’s rumpled clothes, looking at her blearily while trying to stifle a yawn, his hair sticking out in odd places all over like he just woke up. She unconsciously ran to him, and then abruptly stopped.

“Wh—I—I thought my father kicked you out and I—“

Roy waved his hand in dismissal, but his cheeks dusted slightly with pink. “He didn’t let me go back to my room until, I don’t know, five o’clock.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Mustang,” she said, head faced downwards, “it was because of my carelessness he punished you.”

“No, Miss Hawkeye, nothing is your fault,” he said, sounding rather noncommittal. “Can I have the pancakes?”

“But it’s cold—"

“My brain’s so fried and I’m so hungry I can eat a stack of frozen pancakes if I have to, Miss Hawkeye, I don’t mind slightly cold pancakes,” he grumbles as he makes way to the dining table, and before Riza can apologise, adds hastily, “ _not_ your fault, don’t apologise, please.”

“Why,” she asked, timid and shaky, as she sat across him, as he shovelled pancakes, berries, and milk into his mouth. “Did you do that?”

“Do what,” his mouth was still full, his bedhead wild like a bird’s nest, her eyes still puffy from sleep, undereyes still darkened from the lack of it. He was the epitome of _mess_ , so all over the place and yet at the right place all at the same time.

Riza fiddled with the tablecloth, still not trusting herself to look up at him. “Saying—saying all that to my father…”

He looked at her with a strange expression—something like indignation mixed with a struggling attempt at empathy. “Because you didn’t deserve that—you—he should be proud of you.”

Riza blinks. _Why should he_ , she thinks bitterly, _when all I’ve been doing, all I am, has brought nothing but disappointment to him._ “But—“

“You finished first in your year, and you’re a year _ahead_ of your age, Miss Hawkeye. Realistically, you’re even much smarter than that. You even helped me out decrypting the ancient Xerxian texts Master gave me, for crying out loud. Alchemy is _one_ subject, you excelled in so many more than one—you ever heard _‘jack of all trades, master of none’_?”

Riza tilted her head, confused—did he just insult her, or compliment her? She couldn’t tell. Roy continued, then, after a big swallow of berry pancakes. “ _But oftentimes better than master of one._ And you, master of none? You’ll probably master lots of things in time,” he told her with a grin, and then, all of a sudden, he averted his gaze, and dropped his voice lower. “You’re not only very smart, you’re also very kind and considerate and thoughtful, Miss Hawkeye. He might not know that because he was always holed up in there… and, well, it’s true that I’m here to learn from him, but if you’re not here, I have no idea how I’d survive, honestly? He’d probably already chased me out.”

“Point is. Chin up, Miss Hawkeye. I—I know you respect your father and I do too, but he’d be a fool to treat you like that, his only daughter, who’s… well, who’s as, um, as smart and kind as you,” he said, words running in the ends, like he was trying to quickly speak so she wouldn’t catch it. Riza did, though. She did, and the sweetness this apprentice of her father’s showed to her made her breath hitch, and Roy still hadn’t looked at her, opting to finish the last of his pancakes.

Riza looked down at her hands on her lap and smiled.


	2. ii. acedia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days with him were always numbered, and now was not an exception.

It was nearing winter, and Mebdo winters were rough. She shivered as she woke, the loose arm he had over her middle doing little to warm her; she turned and burrowed herself into his chest and pulled the blanket tighter over them as Roy stirred.

“Y’r’up,” he mumbled incorrigibly without opening his eyes, pulled her close and ran his warm hands up and down her arms, circles on her back. Riza sighed, relishing the warmth. “You’re cold.”

“You hogged the blanket,” she complained, and he held her tighter.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Roy finally opened an eye sleepily and looked down at her, a slow grin spreading over his face. He dove for her lips and kissed her warmly, enticing a small squeak of protest. “You wanna warm up?” He asked huskily, an attempt (a successful one) to be enticing, but he simply kissed her forehead.

She blushed, hitting his chest in retaliation. _Ow_ , he said half-heartedly. “If you’ve finished decrypting the sigil you’d be able to warm us up right away with flame alchemy.”

It’s been eight weeks since her father died, and seven since he settled (temporarily) into her house again, having submitted his leave request and the many processes needed to obtain it. It had started out awkwardly—certainly having to remove your top and bare your back to someone whom you used to have a terrible, massive crush in (still did) was an experience that warranted awkwardness. Roy had been kind and gentle and gentlemanly, though, almost perfectly proper and perfectly detached as if he was to study from a book instead of a young lady’s naked back, but the air between them had grown thicker and denser with a certain kind of restlessness that eventually burst, rapidly escalating to _this_. She wouldn’t complain. It had been what she really wanted after all.

“Riza, are you telling me to burn us down?”

“Your leave is up in four weeks,” she reminded him gently, ignoring the way it made her heart clench, “you shouldn’t be stalling. The State Alchemist Certification is a month after your leave is finished.”

He buried his head in the juncture of her neck and clavicle, and Riza couldn’t help the gasp that followed as he kissed and lightly sucked on the skin. “ _Roy_ ,” she chided, also half-heartedly.

“‘M not stalling,” he said, voice muffled by her skin, “the array is hard to decrypt.”

Riza sighed. “All the more reasons to get your butt on it.”

“There are other places I’d rather get my butt on,” he said, continuing his ministrations on her neck, while his hand started to roam down her waist, and further to her hips, onto her bare thigh. Riza laughed.

“You need to learn to be more romantic,” she told him, but she shifted to let him; heat shot down her lower side as he kissed her full on the mouth, tongue warm against her own, and sooner than later it was warm and she shivered for an entirely different reason than the cold outside. She dozed a little, after, and when she woke again he was awake, but they hadn’t moved much from where they had lain the previous night. The cold wasn’t as biting, now, that the sun had risen considerably high enough to stubbornly shine through the thin curtain by her bedroom window.

In the ever-shifting light his hair looked shining, thin and baby-soft, and his smile, lopsided and sleepy and lazy filled her heart with a feeling so expansive it almost ached.

Days with him were always numbered, and now was not an exception. In the grand scheme of things, Riza realised her father, as distant and uncaring of anything other than his alchemy as he was, had known this, all of this, would happen in time—long before she, or Roy, knew. He’d known, without having to step out of his stifling study—and she wondered when he did, was it right as Roy arrived, was it when they were caught, separately referring to each other as Roy and Riza and not _Mr. Mustang_ and _Miss Hawkeye_? As afraid as she was of Berthold Hawkeye, as cold as he felt towards her, Riza felt a twinge of sadness, the last drips of affection, for someone she once knew, though she’d lost him many years ago.

It’s been eight weeks since he arrived at her door the second time, two years since he left to enlist, and five since he first stepped into her door, gracing her hollow, deteriorating home—and life—with his easy and warm presence. She had been thirteen and awkward and all-bones-and-no-curves, and he had been fifteen and bright-eyed and a sweet and naive city boy; then she turned fourteen and him sixteen with shoulders broad and strong but limbs lanky and bumbling. He was never bumbling, though, she didn’t think, just endearingly awkward, just kindly earnest. She had been fifteen and he seventeen when she had realised the startling intensity of his significance in her then-scarce-life (her still-scarce-life), and then she turned sixteen with an aching loneliness and worry for he had already left. She had wanted to write, he had encouraged her to, but she also wouldn’t know what to say. She had had moments where she wondered if he would die or just simply never return without her telling him all the things she wanted to say. Days with him had been numbered—then it was three years and now it was mere days, and there were always things to do, absent parents to mourn, lessons to learn, arrays to decrypt, even now, more so now. Riza brushed his hair with her fingers and planted a kiss on his nose. At least now she could fill the inbetween doing things she thought would only remain in her fantasies.

She finally made a move to roll off of him, but Roy held her in a locked grip.

“A little longer, please?”

“It’s almost noon, aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m starving, actually,” he said, nuzzling his face to her hair.

“But?”

His breath was warm on her neck, and she could feel him smile against her skin as he sighed contentedly. “But nothing feels better than this.”

She was inclined to agree. In fact, she was rather sure nothing _was_ better than this. He might had a puzzle to finish, a code to crack, a deadline to meet. She would chide him, but at that moment, in him, for him she would indulge.

Days with him were numbered, always so. She wanted to make the fullest of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe i didnt tag, and didnt note the first chapter whatsoever i was on night shift and i was only half brain-celled at best........ anyways! how original, right, 7 cardinal sins-based royai. but i absolutely cannot resist. they do be my ride or die
> 
> most of the chapters are done so i guess i'll update this every uh day?? i guess?? dont hold a gun to my head if i dont please
> 
> anyways,,, just a note they should be 18/20?? and that last roy line was because khalid really is living on my head rent free
> 
> oh right! in case it's not very clear 'there is only one cardinal sin' means. love. love is a cardinal sin
> 
> im on night shift again i think i should resign from my damn job i want to note this and tag properly but i dont have the brain capacity to do so i've just been functioning fueled by spite and coffee and induced sugar highs right now
> 
> one of my fav tags i've seen in ao3 is "no beta we die like women" and i religiously live by it and its not like i have fandom friends to beta the lovechild of my chronic sleep deprivation and unhealthy obsession with these dumbasses /sad girl time/
> 
> as you can see from my incoherency thruout this note i'm really not in the mental capacity huh but i want u guys to enjoy <33 love u all stay healthy friends


	3. iii. invidia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t take her hand.

Maes liked to invite him, sometimes, to have lunch or dinner at his and Gracia’s flat in Central. Riza knew Roy went out with him time-to-time when he was in town, for dinners that stretched into drinks into hangovers. Roy only rarely accepted when the invitation was to dine at the Hughes’ house, more often than not painting a feeble excuse of business and distance. She wondered why, when he was rather fond of his best friend’s wife himself— _Gracia is very kind, and quite stern with him when she wants to, you know, Lieutenant, it’s kind of funny sometimes._ He tended to mind less when Gracia showed up unexpectedly at his and Maes’ night out, when she accompanied him to East, rather than having to go to their place. She wondered what the difference was. Sometimes he did have business in Central, and she usually followed; she knew his schedules, and his deflections from said dinners with his good friends more often than not had been empty excuses.

It was close to fifteen-hundred-hours, and the other men were out having a late lunch from cramming the backed-up paperwork of their recent, piling cases. The Colonel hadn’t gone to lunch, and neither had she—she asked the men to get some for them instead, so they could eat while working. It was Havoc that asked to go, near-exploding without his afternoon dose of nicotine, and the Colonel shooed them all instead, because Breda was getting snappy and Falman getting confused and Fuery getting tired. Riza had been getting annoyed, too, but in the end she opted to stay.

“Lieutenant,” he called. His voice echoed slightly louder with the absence of the others. Riza looked up, not in the mood to bother to walk to his desk.

“Yes, Colonel?”

Roy leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on his steepled fingers as he would when being contemplative. He regarded her with a cautious look, and Riza blinked, raising her eyebrow subtly—he’d catch it, he always did.

“I’m going to Central next Sunday,” he said, the words coming out oddly timid, despite the normalcy of it. Riza nodded, and reached out for a black leatherback journal she kept for his schedules, if only to make sure, as she responded before she reached the date.

“You certainly can, Sir, you don’t have prior engagements up till now. May I know the agenda, Sir?” Even if it was a personal trip, she would still mark it, at least to let anyone who might be looking for him know. He did almost always tell her his personal schedules, so she could work his meeting requests around them or ask him if he could move them if the work schedules would be rather important. She usually knew when he would be going on his dates as well, but of course, she didn’t write them down. It would seem silly to do so—however she would mark the dates with two dots on the box, so she could remind him to summarise his newly-received informations, if only for his own filings, in his research notes.

“Nothing too important, actually. Just visiting Hughes.”

She wrote it down. _Meeting—Lt. Col. Hughes._ “Alright, Sir. Would the 8:00 train towards and the 19:00 one return be convenient for you?”

“Actually I wanted to drive. Do you mind, or do you prefer the train?”

She took a couple of seconds to register and then Riza’s head snapped up in surprise. “You want me to come with you? Are there any certain mission, Sir?”

“No—just,” Roy rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maes and Gracia invited me to lunch, and they asked to extend the invite to you. If you want to, of course. If you don’t, it’s okay too.”

She had first met Gracia at her wedding—and you didn’t really meet a bride or a groom at a wedding, you visit them. Maes did brought her to meet Riza personally, and her impression of Gracia was that she had been a lovely, warm woman. Hughes was Roy’s best friend, then her friend by proxy, too, but she couldn’t really say she was anything but mere acquaintances with Gracia.

(Back then, Gracia’s arm had looped around Maes’ as they walked to them. Riza had been beside Roy, not a step behind, but there had been a distance. He was in a nice black suit, hair slicked back, and there was a corsage on his breastpocket as the best man; she had worn a light blue dress with a modest neckline that concealed everything she wanted concealed, her then-shoulder-length hair left loose.

“Gracia, this is Roy’s Lieutenant, Riza Hawkeye,” Maes introduced, and wrapped his arm around his bride as Gracia extracted her arm from his to shook her hand. Riza had smiled, took her hand in hers and relayed her congratulations and well-wishes easily.

“I’ve heard lots about you,” she told Riza, and Riza was about to level a look at Maes, but it was Roy who beat her to saying what was on her mind.

“And she had heard _plenty_ about you to last her a lifetime, Gracia,” Roy jest.

She shot _Roy_ a look instead. “It was all pleasant things and I don’t mind,” the then-Lieutenant Colonel had simply grinned at her innocently.

“It’s understandable if you do. I know Maes is a rambler,” Gracia had laughed. “You’re even more beautiful than I heard you to be, Miss Riza—Lieutenant, I mean.”

She had returned the compliment immediately, finding it ludicrous a bride would compliment her instead of otherwise, but Gracia had simply shifted her eyes to Roy with a smile, who, for some reason, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. The newlywed had retreated, then, to greet other guests.)

“It’s very kind of him to do so,” she said, letting her questions hang in the air unsaid.

“You don’t have to—I mean. Maes felt friendly with you, I guess, so—“ he cleared his throat, “I mean, you’ve never properly met Gracia, maybe you’d like to. I don’t know—have another female friend?”

She raised an eyebrow and smiled a little. “There’s nothing wrong with Lieutenant Catalina, Sir,” she said, not bothering to defend herself from the accusation of not having quite literally only one female friend.

“Of course not,” Roy agreed, looking a bit relieved she wasn’t responding in offence. “I think you’d like her.”

She pondered for a moment, biting her lower lip as she thought of it. There had been time and time again when she had to accompany him to Central for a business trip and Hughes invited him to dine at his house. More often than not, Roy refused, opting to eat with her at the hotel as they worked or simply started for back East. She’d told him it would be alright to go, she would be fine dining alone as he spend his rare chances with his good friend, but he’d make vague excuses not to. He had never expressly said she was invited, though, and Riza wouldn’t want to impose, even if she did not regard Hughes a stranger. She assumed it was just because he felt bad to leave her alone for a personal schedule on a business trip, and even if she would have been alright with it, she found it to be sweet that he considered about her.

This was the first time Maes did so, she supposed, and she thought it would be alright. Gracia was a nice woman, and God knew she _could_ use another female friend other than Rebecca—almost equally unhinged and _unwomanly_ (they’d argue otherwise, but they also didn’t care enough to argue) as she was. Maybe she could meet Gracia, try to find a semblance of normal female friendship of the sort. It wasn’t a direly necessary thing, but neither was it unwelcome.

“If you have prior engagements or simply don’t want to—“

“It would be lovely to meet Lieutenant Colonel Hughes and Gracia for lunch,” she interjected. It was, perhaps, unwise; agreeing meant that she was going to join his personal schedule—out of town. It felt like breaching something, some line that they’ve drawn (it was drawn for them), and yet she wanted to allow a moment of respite, from the mountains of work they’ve been having lately. Lunching with friends seemed like a pleasant enough idea. The Colonel had smiled, looking oddly nervous, and nodded in satisfaction. She wrote in her own personal calendar.

-

The Colonel picked her up at seven on the dot, and she might have spent too long to choose a decent outfit—the drive was pleasant, they talked about work, about their longterm vision, about missions, and little about mundane things that didn’t feel out of place. It was only when they were in front of the Hughes’ door that Riza fully realised the situation. They were out of town, the two of them, in civilian clothing, for a leisure agenda of meeting two friends. Two friends who were spouses—and them—what? The hesitancy that she saw when he invited her was perhaps justified. He saw that she was one step behind him on his left and stepped back, so that they were side-by-side, right before Maes opened the door with a grin.

They engaged in conversational banter of the drive, of their last missions, of work-related things as Maes walked them to the clearing of his dining table. The Colonel took off his coat and folded it across his arm; after he did so, he wordlessly reached a hand towards her, and slightly awkwardly Riza followed suit, handing hers to him. If Maes had something smart in response, he kept it within his smile.

Gracia appeared, with an apron, beaming sweet smile and all, from what she presumed to be the kitchen; the apron dipped and curved along her belly and Riza smiled. “Welcome, Roy, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” she said, slightly sheepish, “I’m sorry we’re a little bit behind! If only _someone_ has any sort of use in the kitchen instead of making a mess.”

The glare she directed at her husband, who had both palms up in a surrender, was mild and laced with mirth. Riza strode towards her. “I’ll help out. I haven’t cooked properly in a while but I won’t be in your way.”

“She’s just being humble,” Roy piped in, and Riza rolled her eyes reflexively. “She makes the best lemon meringues.”

“And Gracia’s apple pie is _legendary_ ,” Maes grinned, and Gracia blushed as she swatted him. “Roy couldn’t even refuse seconds. You could learn the recipe, Hawkeye, or you two could exchange recipes. I don’t think I’ve had many lemon meringues in my life, to be honest.”

“Or, _you two_ could learn to be useful in the kitchen so you could make an apple pie or lemon meringue pie yourselves, how about that,” Riza deadpanned, “ _Sirs_ ,” she added haughtily to the flustered grins of her superiors, and Gracia exploded with laughter, beckoning her to follow into the kitchen. The smell of the pastry in the oven _was_ mouth-watering, and Riza was rather content to bask in the delightful aroma. Gracia handed her an apron, probably Maes’ from the size, and Riza donned it.

“It’s been a while, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” Gracia greeted kindly. “I’m just going to need to slice the steaks for us and mash the potatoes. They were already boiled and seasoned. Gravy’s ready, too.”

“I’ll do that, and it’s Riza, please,” she replied, “unless you wish I call you Mrs. Hughes.”

“ _Please_ , no. Let’s reserve that for the formal functions with other military wives,” the brunette chagrined. “Gracia and Riza it is, then.”

“You sound like you dislike such functions,” Riza observes, smiling.

“They’re abhorrently boring,” Gracia agrees, then, voice a drop lower, “and, Maes being this young with his rank—he’s no Roy, but still. They always have something smart—or stupid, to say.”

As she worked with the soft potatoes Riza watched Gracia sliced the steaks, grilled beautifully, portioned carefully even. She ignored the way Gracia worded it, the _kinship_ in the undertones. “I imagine,” she said, because she could only imagine—after all, she wasn’t a military wife whose husband is amongst the youngest ranked officers like Gracia was. “And a congratulations is in order. How far along are you?”

Gracia beamed at the plates. “Twenty-eight weeks, now. I _l_ ook so heavy right now. And I _feel_ heavy.”

“You look lovely. You must be excited to meet them.”

Gracia stopped plating the steaks, and moved to the sink to wash her hands, and Riza took over her place to place the potatoes. Out of the corners of her eyes, Riza saw her lean back to the counter and caressed her apron-clad belly. “These days I’m more scared than excited,” Gracia said, voice low so as to not alert the men in the other room. “It’s just that—sometimes I worry about Maes, being in the military and all. Granted, he’s not in active duty after—after we got married, but we never know. I wonder if things will be alright. I worry all the time if he’s safe, after all, I can’t know all the time.”

There was that—that air of assumed kinship again. Riza lifted her head to look at her, and Gracia’s unsaid _that’s why you went to be by Roy’s side, wasn’t it?_ was clear as day in her eyes. “I understand. Our occupation’s rather… unpredictable, sometimes,” she said vaguely instead, knowing the answer to the unasked question would be equally clear in hers.

“It seems like a tougher circumstance to raise a military family than a civilian one,” Gracia said contemplatively, donning her mitts to take the apple pie out of the oven and set it on the table. “Do you… think about having a family one day, Riza?”

Riza froze. It was almost harmless a question—careful, even, like Gracia knew, to a degree, it might be a sensitive one. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t knew it was much, _much_ deeper than just—

She was struck with epiphany twice. So perhaps it was this, precisely, why Roy asked her to go with him. The startling domesticity, the normalcy and homeliness of having a lunch with your friend and his wife, to help her cook as the men talk, to talk about families, about children. A knot formed in Riza’s stomach as she realised; the way he bragged about her pie, which she hadn’t baked in some eight-or-so years, how he took care of her coat, Gracia’s innocent yet still mindful assumption. The sweet smell of the apple pie no longer enticed her, now, only making her stomach churn.

“I’m sorry,” Gracia immediately said gently, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I—haven’t, actually. It's just that, I just turned twenty-three, and I’m working, so.”

Gracia nodded, and Riza was thankful she didn’t press further; she suspected that if anything, she probably revealed enough in the deflection. But it wasn’t exactly a lie—she hadn’t really thought about family, nor children, though not because of her age—it was because she purposely buried such thoughts at the back of her mind, not permitting them to ever surface, if to protect her own self. She couldn’t really tell Gracia, or anyone for that matter, the truth, should she have to think about it all properly. _I grew up without my mother, and sooner than later I lost my father—first to alchemy, then to death. There is only one person I would want to do that with, and he, too, had lost his parents far too young to want to put another child through it. We both have a lifelong journey of work and labour and atonement to even think about it,_ _and we’re both too bloodstained to even dare to want it. The first time I held a child, it was a dead one, and God knows if it was my doing or his._

The subject was dropped, and they talked about things that were easier; her appetite had returned by the time they set the table, and it was hard to not follow and slip into her role as she saw the Colonel’s face, content and at ease, even if she felt a little bit (a lot) like a poser. She consciously tried to not call him by the title, not by Sir, and extended the gesture to Hughes, and she didn’t know if it was for his or her own indulgence.

Looking at Gracia and Maes, and then _them_ and the sea of history between them, made her wonder if he harboured some sort of disappointment towards her that she had chosen this path. She could only hope he didn’t.

“I’ve told him to have you over for _so_ _long_ ,” Maes said at one point, glaring at Roy, whose ears turned red on the tips but didn’t grace her questioning stare with an explanation.

“Well, when I’m busy Hawkeye’s usually busy too.”

The lunch was impeccable, Gracia’s cooking was great, and the apple pie _was_ delectable, she had to admit. The talk that followed were easy and friendly, Roy was laid-back and smiley, and Maes doting to his wife, swinging his arm across the back of her dinner chair, hand traveling to rub her stomach briefly, or cupping on top of Gracia’s on the table. She drank water as the men poured wine, knowing that she should drive the way back East, and then she watched Maes held Gracia’s hand with no apprehension, no hesitancy; watched his thumb rub across her knuckles back and forth and she couldn’t help but watch _him_. She was surprised when, in his eyes were not the slightly exasperated fondness—but fondness nonetheless—that she always saw when he was with his best friend. In his eyes was the looks of a wistful, envious man.

She shifted in her seat and Roy startled; she put her glass of water on the table and brought her hand down to rest on her thigh, and it wouldn’t take the whole reach of his arm for him to take it if he so wanted to. She wouldn’t pull away. She’d let him—she’d turn her hand to fit it snugly against his, she’d spread her fingers to snake inbetween his. He could run his thumb on her knuckle like Maes did, if he wanted. God knew Maes and Gracia wouldn’t bat an eye. (Or they would, but they would only smile at them and then at each other, and it would be something that they would swear their silence on, swear their support on.)

He didn’t take her hand.

(The drive back to East, with her driving, was silent. The next day he was back to all-smiles and she was back to all-work, and it was like normal, the _true_ normal again. Gracia called her time-to-time, simply to chat, and they grew closer than she thought they would, and Gracia happily obliged to one day meet Rebecca, too, perhaps.)

-

Many weeks later Elicia Hughes was born. Roy told her, genuinely happy and proud despite bemoaning of how much worse Maes would be, that he was named godfather. Riza didn’t tell him Gracia asked her the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS SPIRALED OUT OF CONTROL it's SO LONG???? the idea was super simple and it just.... bye
> 
> what do yall think of a life as we know it au, im not a romcom kinda gal but it's like the only (2000s, because i dont keep up with 2010s romcoms) romcom i liked, i think the trope's really sweet lol
> 
> n e ways have a lovely day <3


	4. iv. ira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She chose to tell him the truth, be as confessional as it would seem—as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the ones with the single quotation marks were excerpts from the manga)

Riza functioned entirely on autopilot in the days following the Fifth Laboratory incident. She robotically catalogued her journey down—her footsteps, her strides, the shapes of the tunnels, the doors, the ceilings. It was mechanical, utterly and completely detached from the other lapses that had happened, the outbursts, the tears that she had shed there in the basement—she pushed it way back, avoiding the fresh memory like a plague, but it easily resurfaced as she counted her bullets for logistics. It wasn’t really the shame for the lapse, not really, it was more about the searing pain the flashback caused her—the grief anger denial bargaining acceptance stages she went through in barely a minute when she _thought_ the Colonel had died would rush to her chest and knocked whatever breath she had remained. She didn’t want to feel it again, she never _wanted_ to think Roy dead again.

She just returned from the phone booth, after phoning the worried parents of Jean Havoc as he returned from his surgery, still deep in sleep on a bed next to Roy’s. In the hospital she’d acted as proxy—her and the Colonel—guardians to the Second Lieutenant, and then as the definitive legal guardian of the Colonel, because for some reasons she didn’t want to face yet he had listed _her_ as his legal guardian.

“Lieutenant,” he said quietly as she slipped in.

“Yes, sir?”

He fixed her an unreadable look that made her heart quicken pace. “Lieutenant, were you truly unhurt in the Fifth Laboratory?”

“No, sir,” she instantly answered, already feeling her ire building—he always did this, always worried for people before he worried for himself. In fact, when he had been swimming in his consciousness, he’d slurred an _order_ , of all things, for her to get medically checked— _Hawkeye—you should also go get checked by the doctor—it’s an order, Lieutenant._ She would have disobeyed him entirely had the doctor not caught wind of it, empathically calling her up for a once-over once he was done preparing the two for their surgeries. “I had gotten myself checked, Sir, I can request the examination results for you if you’d like.”

It was a wrong thing to say, severely wrong thing, and Riza only realised a moment later. She hadn’t meant to say it snappishly; she said it to equivalence, because she’d been privy to his medical decisions, but she had been unbelievably tense, and he caught that. Riza could see it in the twitch of his jaw. “Understand that at that moment, I was way more than halfway to passing out, only up by force of will,” he said slowly, and nothing warned her to _tread carefully_ as much as this. “So I might misjudge things. However, I was under the impression of you being incredibly distressed, and if you truly were unhurt, I want to ask you what happened.”

“I shot all my rounds to the homunculus—to—Lust,” she said all-too-quickly, “and I ran out of ammunition, but she was still alive. It was reckless of me to empty my weapons in such a short, non-strategic way, Sir. I apologise. It was a misstep on my part, and I might have endangered a civilian because of it. I understand if you were to take a disciplinary action.”

“It was reckless,” he agreed, and then, a touch gentler, “and it wasn’t like you.”

Riza froze. He was looking at her strangely—not unkindly, but slightly terse, almost disapproving, but at the same time empathic. He then continued. “Would it be safe for me to assume you acted on provocation?” He asked her. “Lieutenant, I should remind you Alphonse Elric was in the room and I could ask him the same.”

Riza swallowed; it wasn’t like him to throw thinly veiled—no, blatant, threats to her, but then again they’ve been consistently wading into dangerous territories and more so him, and she’d noticed he’s changed. He’s changed since Hughes, and it wasn’t his fault, but she had found herself to have to tread more carefully around him lately, and this was one of such instances. She could deflect or she could be truthful, right now. Lying was out of the option, it always was, when it was between the two of them. He always saw right through her, and the only other option than the truth was to deflect and not tell him at all but it would end with a heavy dissatisfaction and disappointment between them.

She chose to tell him the truth, be as confessional as it would seem—as it was.

“She told me you were gone,” she said with her eyes cast downwards, voice uncharacteristically small. “The rest was on impulse. I thought you died, and I couldn’t control my reaction. Sir.”

She added his title like an afterthought, a fraction of a second too late. She hoped he could understand what went unsaid between her lines, the truth she was, at that moment, too scared to face. Even remembering it, saying it caused a visceral pain in her chest—a tugging at the barely-stitched cracks inside her. _I thought you died, and nothing else, not even_ my life _, matters anymore._

Instead Roy took a sharp intake of breath that had her look up out of worry—instead of the pained understanding she thought he’d have on his face, his jaw was tense and he looked at her with almost disbelieving eyes.

“And in response to hearing me dead, you gave up, Hawkeye? You all but gave her a chance to kill you? Just because you thought I’m dead?” He asked, calmly, and Riza felt her stomach drop. “Are you an idiot?”

“Sir—“

“You’re an idiot,” he repeated—no, yelled, barked at her. Riza flinched.

Riza was, by all means, a soldier through-and-through—true, she had been prodigious even as a cadet, back then, and had had praise sung by her name before any of her peers had heard so much as _fair_. But she was no stranger to harsh words, to reprimand and admonishments, to swear words, even, and had, over time, grown to be able to let them go over her head, to take it in stride.

But this one—it was different.

_You’re an idiot_. Riza couldn’t stop herself from closing her eyes and squeezing it shut to hide the shame, hide the fear, hide the anger that bubbled in her from hearing it—to hide.

Amongst all the jumble of emotions, her anger was the one that burned the most from inside.

 _Bastard. Asshole. Jerk._ The anger and hurt in her flashed red and hot and gripped her throat like a vice; Riza balled her fists and dug her nails into her palms until it hurt to bite and swallow back all the retaliate anger she felt towards him. For the many, many years—closer to fifteen than ten—they had known each other, had orbited each other, Roy had never been as harsh as this. And she felt she didn’t deserve this. He should have known what had pushed her so, he should’ve known better than to be as irate as this. And that, in turn, made her angry—she, too, had never been as blindedly angry at him as this.

But he wasn’t Roy, he was the Flame Alchemist, Colonel Mustang, he was her superior, she was his subordinate and he had all the rights in the world to yell and tear her apart all he liked.

Still, she didn’t deserve this. _Can’t he see why I did that—can’t he see that I—_ lo—

‘You lost the will to live because you believed what an _enemy_ told you? First Lieutenant Hawkeye, I thought you’d be the last person to do that!’

 _What the enemy told me is that you’re dead_ , she angrily thought. But she was First Lieutenant Hawkeye, now, and he Colonel Mustang, and she had no place to talk back. ‘I’m very sorry, Sir,’ she said instead, eyes squeezed shut and fists balled on her either side.

‘Don’t let yourself get confused,’ he continued, voice still hard and unforgiving. ‘Never stop thinking, _never_ give up the will to live.’

It was silent for a while, except for the Colonel’s laboured breathing, overexerted from his lashing out, and Havoc’s calm, steady one. Riza herself felt her breath shook as she inhaled, trying to school her thoughts and anger and indignation back into submission, and forcibly pulling up the Calm, Collected, Sensible First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, the loyal aide, the perfect subordinate, back to the surface, forced her to take reins and swallow the humiliation and accept that _her superior—Flame Alchemist, Colonel Roy Mustang—_ had been right. They were in a war, of sorts. This was no place for Riza, just Riza, the girl who had grown up watching him, just Roy, who had followed him and continued to do so even when everything was wrong. This was no place for Riza, the girl who had had him as all her firsts and only. _Her first friend, her first love, her first heartbreak and everything in between_.

The sordid memory and humiliation and heartache mixed like acid and bile in her stomach, but Riza—Lieutenant Hawkeye—gathered herself to stand at proper attention. She had always been rather good at compartmentalising.

“I thought you were hurt,” he said suddenly after moments of silence, from where he had laid back to his propped-up hospital bed to catch his breaths, just as she was about to tell him he could pull ranks and give her a warning, a disciplinary action, whatever. Riza blinked. “I thought she was—torturing you.”

His eyes were closed, his voice devoid of disappointment, anger, irritation. “I’ve never…” she watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, “I’ve never heard you scream like that, Hawkeye. Or cry like that.”

He understood. Of _course_ he understood. The careful wall she hastily erected between Lieutenant Hawkeye and Riza crumbled.

“My gloves were ruined,” he started telling her, much calmer, eyes still closed, “Havoc wasn’t answering me, and I was bleeding my guts out. It was hard to think, Lieutenant, but then I heard you scream.”

He opened his eyes to look straight at her, and Riza’s breath hitched in her throat. Gone were the flash of anger, the irritation, the reprimand in his eyes—he looked tired, regretful, scared.

“When your screaming stopped I thought I was late,” he told her, only barely louder than the sounds of their breaths.

How long had they known each other, like the backs of their own hands, how long had they known each other’s souls like how once upon a time, they had known every nooks and crannies of their bodies? He had grown distant since Maes, that much was true, but he still knew her better than anyone and she _should too_. She should’ve understood—after all, the way of things had never been accommodating for either of them, and they had talked in undertones, in cues, for so long this should have been clear as day, if only she hadn’t been as stupid and blind as this. He _caught_ her lapse and understood it, understood where she was standing, understood the implications of her feelings for him easily enough, but she couldn’t?

She _was_ an idiot. She deserved this.

Riza watched his bandaged hand grip his blanket like a lifeline, and felt a wave of shame so strong she almost wanted to cry. But she wasn’t just Riza—she was also Lieutenant Hawkeye, his aide, his right hand, his bodyguard, and today, and maybe tomorrow and the days after, tears shouldn’t have their place. Not shame, not anguish, not heartache; what he needed is _presence_. He was Colonel Mustang and she was Lieutenant Hawkeye, and they would need to be it for a little while yet; but it was great consolation to know that Roy and Riza could, and perhaps would, have their place. Eventually, but not now. She'd hold on to that for as long as it needed be.

‘If you’re a soldier,’ he said, ‘if you’re _my_ aide, be more firm than this.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, shamefully, unwittingly casting her eyes downwards.

‘I will continue to trust you with my back,’ he said, and Riza closed her eyes, relishing his words, relishing that he was here and her, too, and found herself a new resolve.

She only partly started when Havoc made his consciousness, and perhaps a degree of eavesdropping under the pretence of post-surgery, known, cajoling Roy from his moment of vulnerability into ire, and hugged herself close. In a twisted, screwed way, she was glad for her slip back then, devastating as it was, it was one that had injected him with enough adrenaline to come back to her. Riza took a deep, steadying breath and her deflating anger and shame was slowly replaced by a feeling so vast and voluminous she felt like solid gas, and she repeated his words over and over like a strange, almost deprecating mantra— _you idiot, never lose the will to live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya folks im backkkkk!!
> 
> riza was so cute in chapter 40 especially when, after roy berated her and fuery came in she was all like "no!! i have to be here >:(" determinedly... she's so adorable
> 
> [EDIT] oh my god OF COURSE, of fucking course i posted this while i was half asleep after (yet another, of COURSE) night shift and it was unfinished, embarassing


	5. v. avaritia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t continue, but his eyes—his shining, bright, dark eyes that she had first drowned in when she was a naive, cautious, lonely young girl of fifteen—spoke volumes.

“Do you think I should be ashamed?”

Riza tilted her head and saw him not watching the blueing orange sky, but her. He reached out to cup her face in his hand, touch warm and tender as he brushed his thumb on her cheekbone. She lifted her hand to hold his, feeling the soft thrum of his radial pulse as she curled her fingers around his wrist. Roy didn’t need to elaborate, she didn’t need him to, because she knew exactly what he meant.

“You promised it was for them,” she reminded him. She didn’t deign him with a no, because she knew deep down he was ashamed anyways, and she knew had it been her she would be too, but she understood why he did it, thankful, even. It was, perhaps, ungrateful and rather avaricious on their part, and there were no excuses—not even the promise to rebuild what they once destroyed should suffice, but truthfully, she wouldn’t want it to happen any other way. “And you made sure Havoc used it before you too.”

“Exactly. How greedy I am to always want my men to be whole, to be complete? Major General Armstrong—“

“You are not Olivier Armstrong, sir,” she told him gently, firmly. Y _ou are softer, kinder, warmer—and though the Major General is a woman of her virtues, you lead us with heart and love, and we—more so I—would never change you for anyone else. Even to hell, didn’t I say?_ He looked at her and nodded, a little abashed. Olivier Mira Armstrong was as good a leader as him, perhaps even better, shrewder from the preceding years under her belt. But she was the ice queen while he would be something like a firelord, sitting on the opposite ends on their spectrums. Olivier Armstrong would honour her men’s death by carrying on; Roy Mustang would honour his men’s life with his own.

“You—all of you were so good to me,” he softly said, “so good, in fact, that I considered I might not need vision to do it all. I had you—all of you. Three pairs of eyes in the place of just a pair, might even be four, and another pair at Briggs too. You realise how much I value all of you, Lieutenant?”

She hummed, eyes fluttering shut from the blissful touch he graced on her face. “We do, and we value you too.” Roy snorted, and Riza shot him a pointed look, pulling his hand down from her cheek and twined their fingers to hang between them. “You might be _our_ superior but I’m also _their_ superior. I _can_ speak on their behalf.”

And it was true. She told him she’d go to hell for him—the others, they might not, but she knew, they were prepared to, should they have to. Following him had been a conscious decision for her, and perhaps them, but devoting to him was something unconscious, but inevitable. To be one with him, to carry his dreams as her own—as their own, was progressive, eventual, but not at all unwelcome.

He untangled his fingers from hers but opened his arms, inviting her to him. Riza raised an eyebrow in apprehension—they were in the balcony of his apartment, bathed in the warm sunset, out in the open. “Colonel, we’re outside.” She already stepped forward, though, and he smiled, warm and loving and safe, she couldn’t _not_ relent. She took him in as her arms found way around his waist, she breathed; Roy smelled faintly of his aftershave but mostly of spice and smoke, the residue lingering like the metal of gunpowder did on her person. It was the smoke of the hearth, not of tobacco, not even of burns—which only happened when he used a great deal of his alchemy. She’d known this scent since forever. When they could be no (would not be) closer than half an arm’s length, it was even more prominent, more familiar, made by the scent-trapping woollen threads of the military blues. But she liked it this way, when he was down to a shirt, when the warmth of the smoke reminded her of a time where they’d doze in front of the fireplace, finding themselves _too_ close together in the morning.

She felt Roy press a kiss to her forehead and smiled when he pulled away, his hands on either side of her face as she still kept her embrace around him. He brushed her bangs back, watching idly as they stubbornly fell back on her forehead. In this lack of distance, she could see the stars in his eyes.

“There were things to consider,” he began, “a number of those were basic necessities, how I would function day-to-day. Then there were questions about work, how I would carry on with my job, with my goals—our goals—if I would even be permitted to stay in the military. I did thought about alchemy, too, you see, Lieutenant, how would I need to hone it so I could wield it blind. The longest list of questions were about the job.”

Riza listened intently, feeling a touch of pride amidst the solemnity. _I had a vision, and they took my eyes for it_. A lesser man, a man that wasn’t Roy Mustang, would retire from the military, would take it hard but take it whole. They’d put their dreams, their _vision_ to rest along with their sight, would accept the fate as atonement for their sins, and in time would make peace with it. But not him—his sight was taken, his vision remained. Perhaps clearer than ever.

“But you answered those questions, you along with Breda, Fuery, even Falman. I realised it would be fine, somewhat, I realised I _could_ have. Does that make sense?” She nodded. “I contemplated not doing it. Havoc should still, of course—you know he didn’t deserve that, he wasn’t like me in Ishval—“

“Colonel.”

“Riza—“ he abruptly stopped.

The sky grew darker by the second and it was silent for a while, save for the humming of the streets. Roy finally drew a shaky breath, and dipped to kiss her.

It took her by surprise—a welcome one, but still—when she felt him press his mouth against hers, first gently, then with a slight urgency that grew fervent, desperate, awfully _telling_ , and as he pushed his tongue into her parted lips he pulled her close and held her tight, and Riza thought, _oh._ It was the rest of everything he wanted to say.

Breathless, he pulled away, a little giddier, a little dazed, but still somber enough. Riza shivered, equal parts because of the gust of twilight wind and then him, but she only felt warm. “It was the way I wouldn’t be able to see _this_ that sealed the deal,” he said, “when I found the answer to all those questions—I thought, but I would never be able to see you again.”

“ _Roy_ ,” she whispered, as if anyone would hear if she said it louder here.

“I wanted to see this,” he said, with a smile that looked almost drunken, “your eyes from this up close, your lips after I kissed you, _this_ , _you_.” He ran his thumbs to softly graze along her browbones, her cheeks, her lips as he said this, and the fleeting touch left a tinge in their wake; she’d known he was a hopelessly romantic man at heart, but this was different, this was a wish so visceral and vulnerable and avarice be damned, he would do the unspeakables for it. And to know it was of her—Riza’s heart threatened to burst.

He didn’t continue, but his eyes—his shining, bright, dark eyes that she had first drowned in when she was a naive, cautious, lonely young girl of fifteen—spoke volumes. _I didn’t want my last sight of you to be on death’s door, lying in your blood on concrete. I want to see your eyes staring at me, I want to see your smile laughing at me, I want to see you after you kissed me. I want to see every new scar and marks and moles on every inch of your skin along the time, the long time, that they were covered from me. I want to see your warm afterglow. I want to see you greedily, and I want to never stop._

She was the one who leaned up to kiss him, next. She did it with equal fervour, equal need and desires and want and _greed_ , to let him know it was the same for her, too. She pulled him by the wrist inside and let him drink her, breathe her, stare at and live her—she would let him have his way with his want and his wish, indulge him in the entirety—because she felt it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mustang you whipped bastard lmao. n e ways from this point onwards it's gonna be post-promised day hehe :> i think i need a couple days more to finish gluttony & lust [ >:) ] 
> 
> also i love olivier ok!!!!!!!! miss maam is the queen supreme!!
> 
> enjoy luvs have a lovely day and week and stay healthy stay inside stay wearing your MASKS!!! <3


	6. vi. gula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was never an indulgent person, except for one Roy Mustang.

Riza was not one to allow indulgences—if only for herself. She had had years and years to build a metres-tall stonewall of resolve and restraint, had had years and years to sort through every single question and every single answer she had for and about Roy Mustang, and it had grown easier over time, to resist oneself of a longing that might not come to fruition. It was part necessity and part self-inflicted punishment on her part, though there had been time and time again where the— _the thing_ between her and the Brigadier General, for lack of a better word—had _demanded_ so much so that it consumed her and threatened to bring her walls down.

But that had been then, before the Promised Day, when the future was far and hard to reach and didn’t really seem to bring at the very least half a dozen near deaths for each of them. The future was now, the searing heat from the sun and the red-and-beige sand and clay of Ishval, where they stood to make unequal amends for the things they’d took, from the things they’d destroyed. The future was now, some dozen half-deaths and half a dozen brink-of-deaths for each one of them, and Riza’s carefully built wall was all but destroyed by both his and her own hands, a result of the hunger and desperation of not wanting to let go, not wanting to be left, not wanting to lose each other.

She was never an indulgent person, except for one Roy Mustang.

“Poor boy,” he remarked empathically at the overheating Hayate as he entered the office, her dog curled up with his face wet from dipping in the small iced water bucket she prepared for him. “It’s especially hot today.”

“It is, Sir,” she noncommittally agreed. He had been overseeing the town hall and prayer area with Havoc while she went with Breda for the clinic, and she’d only arrived some five-minutes ago. The ends of her hair stuck to her nape, and her bangs were uncomfortable against her forehead, but he didn’t fare much better. His perpetually disheveled hair—never too messy, always just enough to be charming and slightly roguish, contrasting his decorated title—were sticking at his forehead and temples, too, face flushed and beads of sweat visible by his brows. He’d grown a little bit tan, now, after six months here, something she secretly envied (for she only sunburned instead of getting that lovely sun-kissed shade) and adored. He looked warmer, with the tan, and with the perpetual sweaty-stickiness of the heat he looked like a young teenage boy out from outdoor activities that would be much more fun than overseeing logistics (he looked like the young teenage boy from the city, with dreams and ideals as high as the stars that gleam in his eyes, the teenage boy she had fallen hopelessly for). Riza smiled.

“You’re not overheating, are you?” He asked, reaching out a hand to cup her face. His palm was hot, and slightly sweaty, but the touch of his thumb going back-and-forth on her cheekbones felt blissful. Riza Hawkeye a year ago would have flinched away, but not Riza now. “Where’s First Lieutenant Breda?”

They’ve gone past reckless to shameless, now—at least in front of the team; from subtle touches and nudges and standing all-too-close to lingering hand on the forearm, on the shoulder, on the back. It then went further to his fingers playing with the prickling ends of hair at her nape, his palm on the small of her back going up and down and sometimes resting across her hip as if they weren’t at work in their dress blues doing one of the most important things in their lives.

Havoc had gone from leery to barely batting an eye, and if this was what they meant with excessive, then she probably didn’t mind.

“No,” she said, taking his hand off her face and laced their fingers together, just as Havoc stepped in. They didn’t move.

“It’s _scorching_ ,” the blonde groaned, side-stepping the two of them without a comment to throw his discarded military jacket onto his chair. His face were flushed pink, as were his arms.

“Breda’s still on site, explaining things to a civilian. I think he said he’s going to be one of the teachers,” Riza answered, only untangling her fingers from the General’s as Jean handed her a file.

“Here’s the logistics report, Cap. Two workers are heat-struck, already sent to the medics, they’re fine, they’re just new. But we’re going to have to expect setback.”

Riza frowned. “But the town hall and prayer area’s our priority buildings.”

“I know,” the General answered as he and Havoc walked back towards her; he had two metal canteens of water in his hands, and he handed one to her. Havoc plopped unceremoniously on his chair and leaned back, sipping his own. “I plan to pull a couple men from the school, and finish the worship area first.” Roy settled by her side.

“Alright, Sir,” she nodded after finishing her water, “I’ll make the requisition forms and get the plan going tomorrow.”

The General didn’t move to his desk as she continued to read Havoc’s report. Instead he stood by her, idly peering over her shoulder to read the report with her. She barely felt his fingers at the nape of her neck, playing with her sweat-sticky hair, brushing them out; she barely noticed him move his hand to her shoulder and up-and-down her arm in a half-embrace, until he finally rested it on her hip, the heat of his body close but not uncomfortable in the office, where it was much cooler than the outside.

“You can’t cuddle at your house?” Havoc suddenly asked, and Riza snapped her head up, slightly surprised—only then did she realise how casually intimate Roy had held her. She flinched away, but instead he pulled her closer by the waist, sending her tumbling closer to his chest. Havoc had an amused grin on his face, leaning far on his chair with his fingers laced on his stomach. “Do I need to leave?”

“ _Sir_ ,” Riza chided, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. The heat must’ve gotten into her, even if the whole team was privy to _them_ , she rarely allowed him to be this touchy when someone’s in the room.

“We certainly can,” Roy ignored her, tightening his hold on her as he leaned his cheek on her head. It was boastful, possessive, and Riza felt her cheeks warmed. “I just want to make you people jealous at times.”

“ _Please_ ,” Havoc snorted. “I’d be the last person in this office to be jealous. No offence, Captain, but you know I’m no longer the hopelessly single guy in the team.”

Riza relented, then, relaxing in Roy’s arms as she slipped her hand around his waist, leaning her head towards him, and sending a small, teasing grin to Havoc. She felt Roy shift to kiss the crown of her head, and Havoc rolled his eyes. “It’s good that you’re not easily jealous, then, because First Lieutenant Catalina said on her last call she _still_ won’t have the time to come down here for the upcoming weeks. It’s just so incredibly busy at the Fuhrer’s office.”

Havoc scowled, and Riza felt Roy chuckle. This was somewhat unbecoming, especially being this open, this casual, in front of their subordinate in the middle of a work day, but she and Roy had spent some silly ten years of denying themselves and honestly, she didn’t mind. All of them were as close as a family anyways—she trusted them with her life as much as she trusted Roy with it. They’ve all had went through hell and back and came out mostly alive, she’d be damned if she didn’t cherish and live it to the fullest.

Such thoughts were indulgent, uncharacteristic for Captain Riza Hawkeye, but then again, she supposed she couldn’t help to be, when it came to Roy.

The door swung open and Riza stiffened for a moment, not fast enough to get out of the General’s embrace, but it was Breda, followed by a dehydrated-looking Fuery whose eyes widened at the sight of the two of them. Breda threw them a bored look instead.

“Really,” he deadpanned. “Isn’t it hot enough?”

Roy laughed. The sound was musical, laid-back and charming, and Riza cherished it. He ducked one last time to land a short peck on her warming cheek and finally released his hold on her, as he walked towards his desk. Riza returned to hers, warm but not heating, and smiled.

It was indulgent. It was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mustang is going to be the WORST ever if he could flaunt his girl he’s gonna be twice the nightmare that maes was please
> 
> ALSO um... i know this is kinda shaky as gluttony so like... sorry?


End file.
